


A Means to an End

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Genderswap, all things considered, quite vanilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:52:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q has worked hard to get where she is as head of Q-Branch, and if one of the perks of that position is letting a certain Double-oh agent try to seduce her, then she'll just have to take one for the team, won't she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Means to an End

**Author's Note:**

> This one was written to celebrate my 1000th post on Tumblr, as well as to thank everyone I met at 221b con for letting me creep around and generally make googly eyes at them. So thank yous to all of my tumblr followers, all of the people I follow who don't care when I reblog their pictures of Ben Whishaw's face, and all of the people I hugged (and even the ones I didn't) last week. I adore you all!--I just like to show it by writing lady sex?

She knows she is a means to an end; despite years of work, despite being easily the most competent Quartermaster in MI6 history, she’s still a woman, and that makes her an easy mark.  Unusual that it is Bond taking advantage, though.  Hands on the small of her back beneath her jumper, a hot mouth along the line of her throat, fingers digging in the soft flesh of her hips as she presses herself closer—it might be manipulation, she knows, but she will enjoy—

Bond slides her harder against the edge of the desk, shoves her up and over until the oak cuts straight bruises down the backs of her thighs and the back of her head connects with the blotter.  Q’s fingers snarl in Bond’s hair and work it loose from its elegant updo, and she bites at her, teeth sharp against her throat.  It should feel more dangerous.  It should feel more threatening.  Q sighs, opening herself up further.  “Harder,” she murmurs, just broken enough to catch on the air and hang.  Bond laughs.  One solid hand pets between her thighs gently.  Teasing.

“Better?” Bond asks, and Q silences her with a kiss.  It’s enough to let Bond play her, enough to sink shaking against the wood and let Bond think she’s vulnerable.  She doesn’t have to listen to the quips and puns as she lets Bond roll her, move her like a ragdoll.  She ends on her belly on the desk she’s fought tooth and nail for, door locked and curtains drawn as Bond mouths at her from behind.  Even through her trousers and pants she’s dangerously close to coming, jelly-legged and squirming.  Bond huffs against her, breath hot and intimate.  “God, Q,” Bond manages, and Q has to—has to—has—

She’s heavy against her own forearm where it’s wedged between her body and the desk.  Bond watches breathlessly as she presses her fingers between her own legs, watches her jump and twitch and pant before slowly, delicately wrapping her lips around first one fingertip and then another, lips smooth and wet and slick against her skin and then tongue thick and firm against the seam of her trousers.  Q gives a shaking cry that threatens to grow into a scream; she’s soaked through and Double-oh-seven scenting her like a dog.  Bond sucks tenderly at her fingertips, barely an inch from where she wants her.

And god.  Bond laughs as she rocks against the desk, impatient to get her kit off, and pulls her back by the hips, easy, touching the flies with sure, deft, painfully slow fingers; they dip in at the waistband and go no further until Q moves her own hand, gives Bond control, and sinks against the desk with a frustrated whimper.  “Good girl,” Bond tells her, letting Q lift onto her toes with mock obedience to allow her as her trousers come away, falling down her legs.  Q goes for the elastic of her pants and Bond tuts, bends Q’s arm behind her back and holds it there, nuzzling deep into the thick of her hair.  “Not just yet, darling,” Bond says, but when, Q wonders, spreading to arch against her and flexing her hand in Bond’s grasp.

“Please,” she says instead, and Bond bites at her curls instead of answering.  “Please,” she says again, and once more for good measure, “Please.”

“Shh.”  Bond shushes her, fingers already scooping between her thighs to press against her pubic bone.  It’s indirect, whole but unsatisfying; the pressure grows until Bond’s lifted her just to her toes, and that’s when the shivers start.  They hit hard, until her thighs are clenching and her knees are curling.  Bond presses, rubbing slightly until Q knows there will be a livid bruise there, right over her sex, for days, her body weight nearly supported between the desk and these three cupped fingers that leave her confused and hungry.  “Pretty thing.  Say it for me.”

“Say—?” Q asks, because she has no idea what Bond’s angle is here, what information would make the woman press harder with that thumb that’s easing along the line of her slit through the non-barrier of her sticking pants.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” Bond clarifies.  “Do you want me, pretty thing?  Tell me you do.”

The moan that breaks through at that point is defiant, louder than a scrawny thing like Q should be able to make; the men in the office beyond her door will know, she realizes, and she doesn’t care—the perks of being the one in charge include being the one seduced by gorgeous Double-oh agents.  The fingers of the hand Bond has tucked into the small of her back curl and so do her toes.  “Christ, Bond,” she swears, writhing hard in Bond’s grasp.  “You know I do.  I know you can feel—smell—I d—  It will take me weeks,” she accuses, laughing in a gasp for breath, “to get the smell of my cunt out of this room.”

Bond growls low at that, rewards her with a firm press of her thumb pinching the fat lip of her vulva.  Her hand shifts, stops supporting Q’s weight, and Q staggers into the touch with a grunt.  Her other hand releases Q’s arm; the elastic of her pants snaps against her hip as Bond fumbles it, unwilling to stop the petting even to get better access.  The cotton’s slipping now, and Q would be embarrassed but.

But Bond is slowly taking the fabric down, rubbing in with her face and her lips and her teeth, and Q’s fingers shake against the desk as she braces herself.  She’s not ready, will never be ready for—her vision spirals sudden at the first tentative touch of a tongue and she’s aware that she’s wailing only distantly.  Bond makes a noise of appreciation behind her, tasting her, and it’s nearly more than she can handle.  Then there’s a finger, tentative and testing, and it is more than she can handle, pleasure driving her up onto the desk.  Bond follows, kissing open-mouthed at her where that thick finger digs inside and her calves quiver—she can’t recover but manages to tuck her scream into her shoulder, the wool knit swallowing as much of the sound as it can as Bond pulls her orgasm from her slowly, patiently.  Brutally.  The woman’s thorough; long after Q is done shuddering against the desk, she’s patiently smoothing the flat of her tongue along her skin, her cunt and her thighs, chasing smears of saliva and more until she’s satisfied, tucking Q back into her childish floral panties with a soothing palm across her seat.  When Q can manage, she stands on stilts for legs and turns, prepared to face Bond’s smug look.

Instead, Bond looks wrecked.  Her hair is loose, tumbled, her impeccable suit wrinkled and her mouth streaked.  Her battle makeup, the magazine-glossy look she prefers that intimidates the men who find girls like Q such easy targets for catcalls, it’s gone, lipstick rubbed off waxy-smooth between Q’s legs and mascaraed eyes damp and smoking.  Bond spreads her legs, sucks her fingers into her mouth slow and taunting, and Q shakes.  She licks into Bond’s mouth and tastes herself, feels the desire in the rigid walls of her sex; Q rubs hard with her palm as she gets one, two fingers in and sucks a bite against Bond’s jaw.  When Bond comes, it’s understated, breathy panting as she clutches Q’s wrist with both hands to hold her still and clenches hard around her.  She kisses Q sleepy-sated, still grinding against the meat of her palm until the aftershocks slow and fade.

“What was it you wanted, Bond?” Q finally remembers to ask as she’s zipping her trousers.   Bond glances at her under the dark fringe of her impossibly long, impossibly thick lashes.  A woman like Bond, who uses her femininity as a weapon and her sex as a tool, that woman wouldn’t bother with a girl like Q, she knows, unless there were some ulterior goal.

“Who says I wanted something?” Bond asks.  Q makes a sound to show how unamused she is, then hands over a wet wipe for Bond to clean herself with—sticky knickers are uncomfortable, no matter how fun it was to make them that way.

“Don’t think me a fool, Double-oh-seven.  You’ve a mission coming up, I know, and want something from me for it, I’m sure.”

“Fine,” Bond says, tone clipped.  Q blinks up at her, taking in the taut line of her shoulders.  “I confess, I did come to you for something.”

“And you can have it, after a performance like that,” Q promises, smiling cheekily.  Because if it will encourage another tryst like this one, Q would promise Bond the moon.  “Name it.”

Bond stares at her, long enough for Q to feel shy again.  She’s not—Bond is gorgeous, and Q is just—Bond’s lips break through the self-doubt, tracing high along the shell of her ear before the kiss ends with a sharp nip to the lobe.  “Just this,” Bond says, lips moving against her skin.

And yes, that seems a pretty fair trade.


End file.
